


whenever i'm with you

by keepurselfalive



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 04:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18329012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepurselfalive/pseuds/keepurselfalive
Summary: Brian figures that at some point, he probably should ask why Freddie's here or, even better, why Freddie has apparently decided to move in with him.





	whenever i'm with you

Freddie shows up at Brian's door, duffel bag in one hand, suitcase in the other.

 

"Damn, I missed you, dear," Freddie says, pulling Brian into a massive hug. "You and your scowl and your stupid laugh." And Freddie kisses him, quick and really annoying like, just a brush of lips on his cheek.

 

"Buy me dinner, now," he says then, hopping back and holding out a hand.

 

"Okay?" Brian blinks and slowly nods his head. Really, he can't think of anything else _to_ do.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Freddie wakes Brian up with a cup of coffee in one hand and his ice cold feet pressing hard into Brian's knee under the covers. "Slide over," he says, sliding under the blankets and nudging Brian over carefully. "It's fucking freezing in here. Have you not heard about that thing they call a heater?"

 

He hands Brian the cup of coffee and stretches big, back popping and joints cracking loudly. Brian stares at him over the rim of the cup.

 

"Your bed is awesome," he says, curling down and stealing Brian's pillow. "Awesome. But your couch is pure evil." Freddie closes his eyes, half-smile on his face. Brian drinks his coffee and watches him sleep for an hour before poking him in the stomach and kicking him out of bed.

 

"Out, Fred.” Brian says, and okay, even Brian can admit that maybe some of the threat is lost after an hour of almost cuddling, but whatever.

 

Freddie flips him off from where he's landed on the floor. "You're shopping with me today. Don't even try to get out of it, darling."

 

He rolls up off the floor and Brian's pretty sure he hears the cackle of laughter from the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

Freddie drags them out that day, and ends up buying an air mattress with a deluxe fabric top. It looks pretty much like a torture device, but Freddie seems stupidly happy with the purchase.

 

"You really need a bed?" He asks Freddie finally. He's been wondering that for most of the morning actually. Usually Freddie will swing by and stay for a day, maybe two, then he'll take off for parts unknown to see other people and live his own life until they start recording or touring again. He's never complained all that much about Brian's couch before.

 

Brian's just not sure what he's done to deserve Freddie's full on attention but he's a little worried about how long it'll last. Freddie's focus is daunting and scary, all consuming, and Brian's pretty sure it could take him over, leaving him nothing but a Freddie size imprint.

 

Freddie ignores him, rolling his eyes and tugging Brian along. They stop at coffee shop and Freddie buys him something disgustingly sweet with only the faintest taste of coffee that Brian drinks only because it cost £6 and you just don't throw away a £6 drink. Ever. Still, it's enough to earn Freddie at least another hour, so Brian doesn't bitch too much when Freddie leads him into another store with a hand at the small of his back.

 

* * *

 

At first the whole thing is weird because this is Freddie and weird is generally considered Freddie's default. He does things differently, his own way, and it's not Brian's way. Brian ends up bitching about the wet towels on the bathroom floor and the weird flavored teas stacked in all his cupboards and his sad, empty refrigerator, but still, it's _Freddie_ and so he can't really be all that pissed.

 

At night, they watch tv together and Freddie's got an opinion about everything. Brian's pretty sure that it's the exact opposite of Brian's opinion _on purpose_ , but he can't prove anything. They spend an hour debating Doctors and who is better, and Freddie won't fucking shut up until Brian stomps out of the room, slamming his door shut and barricading himself in, promising himself over and over until 2 am that he will never again watch _Doctor Who_ with Freddie.

 

At least until next week.

 

* * *

 

Brian figures that at some point, he probably should ask why Freddie's here or, even better, why Freddie has apparently decided to move in with him. Because after that first week, Freddie suddenly starts buying things: the exceptionally lame poster of Santana that he hangs on the living room wall ( _Santana?_ Brian asked _. What the fuck?_ And Freddie said, _Yeah, one of the best guitarists of all fucking time,_ and that's the beginning of a whole new debate), and a crock pot (which Brian still hasn't figured out. What the fuck are either of them going to do with a crock pot?) and something that looks like a shower caddy but with weird bars and little cubby hole things, that Brian's actually afraid to investigate too closely.

 

The tiny spare bedroom is packed with Freddie's stuff, extra suitcases, and keyboards, and piles and piles of clothing, and a huge stack of magazines. Brian can't even remember what the color the carpet is; although, to be fair, he's not sure he knew that before Freddie destroyed the place.

 

Freddie's _taken_ over, not just the spare room but a good part of the rest of Brian's apartment as well. It makes Brian think of the early days of the band, that old apartment they shared; everything all mixed up, and jumbled up, and nothing that was actually _his_ anymore, just huge piles of _theirs_.

 

* * *

 

Freddie comes home with a Nintendo and says, “Brian, I'm so going to kick your ass," and Brian tosses aside his book and says, "Oh, you are so _not_."

 

They hook it up on the tv in Brian's living room and it only takes them one night to figure out that the games Freddie bought are way beyond them. The next night, Freddie shows up with Zelda, and maybe, _maybe_ , that's more their style. Although, still—not so much.

 

Turns out, that they both sort of suck at all manner of electronic games. They spend so much time dying that they never actually even get to the point of kicking each others asses. It's depressing really. Instead, they find creative and new ways of dying painfully on screen. Getting eaten by the giant snake is fine, and getting in the way of magical spells is even better, and maybe it's not quite what they'd intended, but it passes the time.

 

When they sit on the couch, Freddie's all over Brian, wiggling underneath his legs and stretching out across Brian's body. He's gotten used to falling asleep with Freddie snuffling into his neck. Every night, Brian ends up staying on the couch until he can't keep his eyes open any longer, till his arms are weak and his head is fuzzy, and he's having to stumble up to head to his room. He climbs into his bed and it's big and cold and lonely, too much empty space all around him.

 

It always takes him forever to fall back asleep.

 

* * *

 

Brian comes home to find a framed picture of him and Freddie sitting in the center of mantle. It's from last year, Brian thinks, because he's sort of learned to judge time frames using Freddie's style. That's pretty much the only way to tell since one generic venue looks a lot like any other. They're standing together, looking at each other and Freddie's pulling a face with his lips all twisted and eyes scrunched and he's cracking himself up, Brian can tell that too just with one quick look, and in the picture Brian has what can only be described as a dorky grin.

 

There's a big halo that's been drawn in black sharpie around Freddie's head, and Brian's head is sporting shitty devil horns poking out from his hair. There's even little hearts, fluttering around in the space between them, some with arrows and some with wings and Brian's pretty sure he sees a few with broken cracks down the middle and one with a dagger poking out from the side. 

 

It's probably the most ridiculous thing he's ever seen.

 

Brian snatches it up and hides it in the kitchen drawer next to the silverware. He laughs manically when Freddie arrives home, eyes going to the empty mantle.

 

“Wanker," Freddie says, but he's mostly smiling. "You'll learn to love it, darling.”

 

* * *

 

Brian hears Freddie whispering furiously into the phone. He's in the middle of the living room so it's obviously not a private call; at least that's what Brian tells himself when he stops just before turning the corner from the hallway. He hears familiar, random words, out of place enough that he can't make sense of even the general conversation. It's Roger on the phone, that much he can tell, just from the tone of Freddie's voice: all irritated, and rushed, all his words the kind of cut-off, half-words that make up the conversational world of Freddie and Roger.

 

"Just. Fuck, no," Brian hears, and it's angry in that Freddie kind of angry way. “He's not...Maybe, yeah...let it go, Roger,” he says, and Roger must because Freddie laughs, soft and easy then, right before Brian can hear the, "Yeah, later," softly whispered.

 

He bangs on the wall a couple of times and comes rolling around the doorway, innocent looking, he hopes, but probably not. Freddie's sitting on the couch, shoulders slumped, defeat screaming in the slump of his shoulders and the long sad line of his neck tilted back and resting against the back of the couch.

 

Brian's stomach clenches and he can't handle the fucking wrongness in that look.

 

"Everything okay?" he finally asks when he can't stand to stare at the long, depressed slope of Freddie's neck anymore.

 

Freddie looks up. "Yeah," he says, "Mostly." He leans against the couch, head tilted all the way back, eyes closed.

 

Brian slides onto the couch next to him, close enough that he can feel Freddie breathing. "Are you-?"

 

"Yeah. Just some shite, you know? Not much you can do to change it." Freddie's voice is colder than Brian's heard it in a while.

 

Brian blinks, stung at the dismissal, and says, "Yeah, okay," and moves to stand up. Freddie's hand wraps around his arms and tugs him closer, closer, until he's settled back down on the couch, his whole body touching Freddie.

 

"Hey, I didn't mean that like it sounded, yeah?" Freddie says, tugging like he could possibly bring Brian even closer. "Stay for a while, Brimi." And Freddie closes his eyes again and leans back, and Brian can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, can hear the soft sigh of the air moving in the silence between them, can almost taste the strangeness in the air.

 

He can't make himself look at Freddie, instead he stares at the picture Brian had hidden in the bathroom cabinet and Freddie had found two days ago. Freddie's halo and his horns were mocking him from on top of the tv.

 

Finally, he says, "I can do that," and he stays for a while.

 

* * *

 

"Coffee," Brian says mournfully one morning, standing at the sink, watching the machine slowly drip. "I need coffee."

 

"Okay," Freddie says, coming up behind Brian and resting his forehead on Brian's shoulder blade. "You totally need coffee." Freddie doesn't move until Brian shoves him away when the coffee finally drips past the two cup mark on the pot.

 

Brian gives Freddie the first cup of coffee, which, Brian's pretty sure, is saying _something_. He's just not sure he wants to know what.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Freddie falls asleep stretched out across Brian's lap with _Blackadder_ still blaring in the background. Brian's staring at Freddie's arms, sinew muscles and bright blue veins visible through his skin. His fingers itch to reach out and scrape across skin, touch the little scar near his elbow, scratch across the lines of his veins, but he doesn't mean to _actually_ touch, not really, but then suddenly, he's got the warm skin beneath his hand and he's rubbing softly, feeling his way across.

 

The space around them feels tight, tiny, like Freddie's filling it all up, or maybe just stealing it away. Brian thinks he should be feeling squished, closed in and pushed tight with Freddie's weight across his lap and Freddie shoving into all of Brian's empty corners and places. But he doesn't, can't really, because mostly it just feels normal, not anything like on tour where there's more of everybody and everything, but —

 

Normal. Good. Comfortable.

 

Brian closes his eyes and breathes, stilling his fingers on Freddie's arm. Warmth and heat and, yeah, it's comfortable.

 

When he opens his eyes, Freddie's staring at him, eyes wide and unblinking.

 

"Hey," Brian whispers.

 

Freddie smiles, just a small turn of his lips. "Hey," he whispers back.

 

The silence coils between them. "So," Brian starts and Freddie leans up, winds his fingers into Brian's hair.

 

“Roger says I should just go for it," he says, and then silences Brian with his lips.

 

It's slow and deep and nothing like Brian thought kissing Freddie would be. If he'd admit to imagining this, he'd have pictured frantic, bordering on rough, and it's _not_ , not even close. Freddie's licking into his mouth, speaking with his lips and tongue, easy and careful. Brian palms Freddie's hip, pulling him up and closer, but Freddie's whispering, "Brian," like he's begging, pleading, holding Brian's hand against him still, not letting him move, and Brian's moaning into the kiss, not pulling anymore, just pushing up Freddie's shirt and letting his thumb trace patterns into Freddie's skin.

 

Freddie's body shifts, around and up and over, until he's straddling Brian, legs bracketing Brian, his hands wrapped around Brian's neck, pulling him in, his lips whispering across Brian's cheek and down him neck, saying frantically, quietly, "fuck, Roger was right. Should have - ," until Freddie's words get lost in the bite of Brian's mouth.

 

"Can we talk about Roger later?" Brian asks, pulling back just far enough to taste the need between them—sweet and desperate, and Brian can't remember ever _wanting_ this bad.

 

"Later, yes. So much later." Freddie breathes the words into Brian's mouth before he's pulling Brian up, grabbing his hand and heaving him up, saying, "Bedroom, darling,” like it's the most brilliant idea ever.

 

Brian sort of agrees. He wraps his hands around Freddie's hips, slips up close behind him and moves them both around the corner, and down the hall, and into the bedroom. Freddie's got his trousers off and he's working on Brian's shirt before they stumble on to the bed, mouths and bodies wrapped tightly together.

 

* * *

 

They wake up tangled together in bed, the sheets tossed down on the floor, their legs and arms so twisted that Brian's not sure which body parts belong to who. He thinks about bitching, complaining about the bruises he can feel on his hips, the scratch marks he can feel burning hot trails down his back, but he's too warm and too comfortable, all wrapped up in Freddie, so he shuffles closer and drifts back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

"So," Freddie says, walking into the kitchen half-naked and smiling at Brian. "Have any plans for tonight?"

 

Brian snorts into his coffee cup and pretends that he doesn't feel a nervous weight in the pit of his stomach. He watches as Freddie starts pulling open cupboard doors and lifting out pots and opening the refrigerator, taking things out and piling them on the counter.

 

It's not so surprising to Brian that Freddie is probably the shittiest cook ever. He spends hours roaming Brian's kitchen, using ten pots to cook a plate of barely edible food. If Brian has to eat another overcooked piece of broccoli he's going to vomit.

 

"No way, Freddie,” he says when Freddie turns on the stove. "Get your ass away from the stove. I'll cook."

 

Freddies blinks at him. "Wow, romantic morning after. Brilliant,” he says, and hops up onto the counter, swinging his legs back and forth. "I like spaghetti."

 

Brian nods his head and pulls out a big pan and fills it with water. "You realize it's breakfast, right?" he asks, even though he's already reaching for the box of pasta.

 

"It's 1pm, dear,” Freddie says, sliding off the counter and right into Brian's space. He presses himself against Brian's back, touching everywhere, close enough that Brian can feel everything, the heat from Freddie's body, his chest rising and falling, the press of that hard length against his ass. "Spaghetti is totally allowed anytime after 10am."

 

"If you say so," Brian gasps out, staring down and watching Freddie's hand rub softly across his stomach. Freddie's biting softly across his shoulders, small nips with his teeth that will maybe leave a mark. "You really hungry?” He asks, turning around and reeling Freddie in, running his hand down Freddie's back and cupping his hand around Freddie's hip.

 

"Not so much, " Freddie shrugs, pushing Brian back against the counter, and sliding his hand down Brian's pants. "I think you can probably convince me to wait."

 

* * *

 

A group show up for his birthday on a Wednesday. They bring him a lame-ass cake and take him out to a crappy restaurant and embarrass him with ridiculous party hats and a room full of waiters singing Happy Birthday. Brian's about to jump from his chair and possibly, definitely, kill both John and Roger who are fucking _crowing_ in laughter, when he feels Freddie wrap his fingers around Brian's knees, pressing down and holding tight, softly circling a thumb around his kneecap.

 

He settles back in his seat and lets his hand find Freddie's under the table.

 

Brian has his own Freddie smile, the smile that Freddie gives him and only him and he's pretty sure he'd recognize it anywhere. He watches Freddie talk to their friends across the table, sees Freddie smiling _that_ smile at them, and all Brian can think is, _that's mine_ , like it's even possible to actually own a smile. Then Freddie turns just enough that he catches Brian's eye and his lips curve, just a little more up, and it's just a small difference, but the whole smile changes into something else entirely. It's so slight that probably no one else could notice, and, okay, _that_ is actually Brian's smile, close but just different enough.

 

He moves closer to Freddie, twisting their fingers tightly together, and it's probably weird and a little too close because Deaky raises his eyebrows at him, then grins that annoyingly stupid Deaky grin. Brian shrugs his shoulders, lets go of Freddie's fingers and instead, lets his hand find a home on Freddie's back, high up between his shoulder blades, where Brian can feel his muscles shifting and moving as he laughs at the horrible joke Miami’s trying to tell.

 

"You guys need a place to crash tonight?" Brian asks Roger.

 

"Nah, you two can just head home. We got rooms downtown."

 

Brian nods, not even trying to hide his smile.

 

* * *

 

He walks in the front door after a late dinner with an old friend and trips over two pair of shoes and a stack of sheet music. It's mostly dark but Brian can see the hallway bathroom light on, door barely cracked open to light up the entry way. He picks his way across the living room, stepping around the stack of magazines and the new pile of clothes that Freddie bought last week. He places his jacket in the hall closet, switches off the bathroom light and slips into the bedroom.

 

There's a pile of blankets on their bed, and there's snuffling, almost a snore, buried somewhere beneath the mound. Brian strips off his clothes and shoves at the pile until Freddie shuffles over, leaving just enough space for Brian to slide into bed, to wrap his arms and legs around Freddie. The bed's barely big enough for two, a tight, perfect fit even though Freddie takes most of the bed and all the blankets, and Brian's usually left with half his body exposed to the cold.

 

Freddie shifts even closer and winds his fingers through Brian's. "Glad you're home," he mumbles in a sleep roughened voice.

 

"Yeah," Brian whispers against Freddie's neck. "Yeah, me too.”

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow, Freddie will get up, walk through their living room on the way to the kitchen, and the first thing he'll notice is the new picture sharing space on the mantle. It's a shot of Brian and Freddie from a few nights ago on his birthday, standing close together and grinning stupidly at the camera. Huge handlebar mustaches will have been drawn over their mouths in an unsteady, thick black line and there will be little hearts floating together right above their heads.

 

Freddie will laugh and run back into the bedroom, jumping onto the bed and whispering wetly against Brian’s neck, "Told you that you'd learn to fucking love -," but Brian will steal the last word away from Freddie, sealing their lips together and rolling them over and off their bed. They'll hit the floor laughing, out of breath, both hearing the _me_ echoing softly through the room.


End file.
